


Silence, Footsteps

by quid_est



Series: Overheard in the Living Room of 221B [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, Dialogue, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 08:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/950669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quid_est/pseuds/quid_est
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scenes overheard in the living room of 221B Baker Street, over a period of four months. This began as an exercise in dialogue without exposition, and continues, probably?</p><p>My gratitude is due to Jude for their excellent beta work. John & Sherlock's rooms sharing a vent is lifted from the fantastic <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/21292">Lorem Ipsum</a> series, for which I beg Saathi's pardon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silence, Footsteps

_30 December 2010, 7:20 AM_

Footsteps, bare. A teacup, clinking against a saucer. An opening refrigerator door.

“Oh, Christ. Jesus. What the. Oh my God.”

Heavy breathing, gradually slowing.

“ _Sherlock_. Will you _label_ the containers with the organs in? Christ.”

A closing refrigerator door.

 

_24 January 2010, 12:15 AM_

Violin.

_2:08 AM_

Violin.

_3:55 AM_

Violin.

_3:56 AM_

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, really? I... you... okay, you know what? Fine. Fine. If I have to get on a train to bloody Surrey at eight in the morning to follow some nutter on a bicycle then so bloody be it if it means you will put that thing down and let me sleep.”

A slamming door.

Silence.

 

_17 February 2011, 10:49 PM_

Telly. Quick fingers on a keyboard, rustling papers.

“So do you ever... I mean, have you ever dated anyone?”

“Why?”

“Just curious.”

“No. Why should I?”

“Well, it’s, you know.” A slight cough.

“Worked out so well for you, has it? The one after the boring teacher told you two nights ago that you should stop seeing each other because she’s interested in someone else, fairly seriously, and she didn’t like your hours. Or me. Obviously.”

“How did... no, never mind, and it was the one that was _after_ the one after the boring teacher. And Jeannette wasn’t boring.”

“Yes she was.”

“Yes, she was. She really was.”

Footsteps. The refrigerator door, then a bottle, opening. A sigh. “Doesn’t mean they’re all boring, though. How do you know you’re not missing something?”

“Terrible food in awful restaurants over pointless conversation during which I will have to pretend to smile. I’ll stick to murders, thanks.” A woman’s breathy moan. “Speaking of.”

“Christ, Sherlock, haven’t you changed your text alert?"

“I’ll be late.”

Hum of the refrigerator as it kicks on. Footsteps down the stairs. A swallow. Crash of glass on the edge of the bin, then on the floor.

“Shit.” A sigh. “Oh, _shit_.”

Footsteps, up the stairs. “Evidence is coagulating as we speak, John, what’s keeping you?”

“In my pajamas, Sherlock.”

A beat. “Well, get your coat and come already. Anderson is likely stepping on something important."

“Yeah. Yes. Be right down.”

Footsteps. A muffled curse.

 

_18 February 2011, 6:30 PM_

Footsteps, slow. Step and drag, step and drag. Thump and clatter of metal on wood, hiss of air drawn through clenched teeth. A second set, measured, just behind.

“On the sofa, John. Here, I’ve got them.” Metal, a hollow aluminium clink. “They’re on the floor just beneath you. Take my arm.”

“I’m fine, Sherlock.”

“I know you’re fine. Get that leg up.”

“It was barely a scratch. If it wasn’t for the stain on my trousers I would have thought Garrideb had missed me.”

“Of course it was. Phone and laptop are on the table within reach.”

“I can _see_ them, nothing wrong with my eyes and hardly anything wrong with my leg. And you’re being ridiculous—I’m a doctor, if you’d forgotten.”

“I know you are. Mrs Hudson will be up in...”

“You didn’t have to tell _her_ , seriously, I only needed a few stitches, it’ll be healed before I can even...”

“I didn’t. The post was out when we came up but the paper’d been left, she’s in but she’s watching the news programme, and it’s twelve to, important stories are done and the human interest should come on in three... two...”

A faint cry through the floorboards: “Oh dear goodness!”

“And you’ll have all the tea and biscuits you can possibly hold in about thirty seconds. I’ll be back later.”

“Hang on, where are you going?”

Sharply: “ _Out._ ”

Quick footsteps down the stairs, a crashing door. Slower footsteps, up the stairs. A rattling tea service.

With a quiver: “Oh, _John_!”

Barely audible: “Oh god.”

 

_19 February 2011, 2:01 AM_

Footsteps, soft. Rustling fabric, quiet breathing.

“Sherlock?”

“I thought you were asleep.”

“I was asleep. Sherlock?”

“Sorry to have woken you, then. I’ll just be a moment.”

“Sh—. You. Are sorry to have _woken_ me?” A snort. “I never thought I’d say that I should be shot at more often, but...”

“Shot, not shot at.”

“Hardly the first time. Sherlock. Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?”

Footsteps, a running tap. “It’s in the wash.”

“It’s in the kitchen sink. Where _were_ you?”

“Washing liquid, John.”

A pause. A short laugh. “As you keep reminding me, got shot today, mate. Not getting it for you.”

“I mean where is it. Have we even got any?”

“Of course you don’t know where it is. Under the sink.”

A cupboard door opening, closing. Footsteps. Creak and wheeze of leather upholstery.

“I can’t remember you ever washing anything. What were you doing out?”

“Bringing in Garrideb, of course.”

“Thought Lestrade had him.”

“Anything I want done properly I do myself.”

Silence.

“You—uh, you missed a spot of blood on your arm.”

Silence.

“Did he—”

“It’s not mine.”

Silence.

A body, shifting in cotton sheets. Feet laid softly on the floor. “So—”

“Lestrade has him in custody, yes.”

“Case closed, then?”

Deep, nearly unrecognisable: “Most satisfactorily.”

Silence. Rustling fabric, clinking metal.

“Well, I suppose I should try the stairs before I wrench my back sleeping like this. No, no, don’t, I’m not going to die from losing a teaspoon of blood and you’re making me feel like an invalid.”

Footsteps, halting. Metal on wood. “John?”

"Yeh.”

“I’d taken his gun. The cabinet was across the room, but the spare was taped to the trapdoor—there’s always something” A beat. “You should not have been hurt.”

“It’s fine.”

“It isn’t.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry.”

“Two apologies in twenty minutes? You’ll have nothing left for my birthday.”

“It will never happen again.”

“No, I expect it won’t. I can’t believe I made the news.”

“ _I_ made the news. And the discovery of the massive counterfeiting ring made the news, I suppose. You were barely mentioned.”

“It doesn’t make sense I was mentioned at all. They just wanted to run the picture of you in the hat again.”

Silence.

“Well, night, then.”

Silence.

Shuffling, halting steps, up the stairwell and fading.

Silence.

Silence.

“John.” A pause. “I— goodnight.”

Silence.

 

_17 March 2011, 8:14 AM_

“Sherlock, we have to do something. This is getting out of hand.”

“Mmm. Let me see, let me see, zero point one milliliters and... yes. YES. John, syringe.”

“Do you know Harry called me today and yelled at me for thirty straight minutes for not introducing her to my boyfriend?”

“ _Syringe_ , John. Over on the kitchen counter.”

“I finally got a word in edgewise to ask what she was on about and it turns out there’s a story about us in a tabloid. In a bloody tabloid right next to, I don’t know, Wills and Kate or whoever. And it says that you’re cheating on me. How can you be cheating on me if I’m supposed to be a confirmed bachelor, anyway?”

“SYRINGE, you idiot, this is a very time-sensitive reaction and some schoolteacher from Brixton is going to be tortured to death by a serial murderer because you couldn’t shut your bloody _mouth_.”

_10:52 AM_

“I... perhaps I shouldn’t have said that.”

Silence.

“I mean, obviously you shouldn’t have thrown the syringe. Christ, John, what were you _thinking_? You had no idea what was in it, first of all, and second, even being harmless, even having missed me, you...”

Silence.

“I mean, I’ll catch the serial murderer anyway, because he’s sloppy and not as clever as he thinks he is. They never are.”

Silence.

“It doesn’t matter to me how I’m perceived in the press.”

Silence.

“I mean, of course you know this isn’t what they say it is, and they don’t care one way or the other—they’ll have moved on to some atrocious actress’s fake pregnancy by next week.”

Silence.

“All right, fine. It matters to me. How you’re perceived. Because it clearly bothers you.”

Silence.

“And anyway, it’s just stupid to think I’d cheat on you. If we _were_ together.”

Silence.

“Tiresome waste of a well-crafted deception.”

Silence.

“And besides I wouldn’t be with you if I didn’t find you well beyond worthy of holding my attention.”

Silence.

“JOHN.”

Silence.

“John?”

Silence. Silence.

“Oh fuck it all, he’s been at the clinic for the past hour, hasn’t he.”

 

_10 April 2011 11:45 AM_

Small rustle of waxed paper, separating.

“How many patches is that, Sherlock?”

Silence.

“Be careful with those, would you?”

A pause. “Mmm.”

“Well, I’m for bed.”

Silence.

“And then _you_ say, ‘Goodnight, John, see you in the morning.’ ”

“Mmm.”

“Right, well, you’ve left a letter on the kitchen table. At least, I think it’s yours, there’s no postmark.”

A shout. A tipping chair. A thump. “DON’T, for God’s sake.”

“Jesus, all right.” Footsteps, a metal clang, the turn of a key.

“I hate to have my things touched, John. You know that I hate it.”

“You don’t have to be such a bastard about it, I wasn’t going to…”

“Weren’t you going to bed, or were you planning to drive me mad first?”

Heavy footsteps. “Fine. _FINE_.” A door slamming, opening, slamming again.

A long, shaking sigh.Silence.

 

_14 April 2011, 9:42 AM_

“Sherlock?”

Footsteps on the stairs. Toast, going down. Snap of a gas burner.

“Sherlock?”

Toast, coming up.

“Thought he’d be in this morning.”

Silence. A rustling paper.

“Sherlock?”

An opening door.

“Oh John, I’m sorry, I just heard you calling and I don’t think he’s left hospital yet, love.”

“Mrs Hudson?”

“I understood it might be some time. Rather a dreadful business this is, though, isn’t it? I just thought I’d pop up and see if there wasn’t something I could bring later on, if he’s still waiting. I’m sure he’d rather have the skull than flowers, the poor daft man.”

Clatter of a chair toppling. “Hang on a minute, Mrs Hudson. What are you talking about? Sherlock’s in hospital?”

“Well, yes, dear, haven’t you seen the paper? ‘Possible biological agent,’ they’re calling it—I wouldn’t have believed it myself, but Lord knows there’s not many people in this city he hasn’t made angry some way or another, so it’s not so far-fetched to imagine he’s painted a target on his forehead. They’re reporting that he’s in very critical condition and—sit down, dear, you’ve come over pale.”

A crash, a cry. Footsteps, up the stairs, running.

_4:50 PM_

“Mrs Hudson, are you still here? I don’t know what hospital, I tried at Bart’s and—”

“John, you’d best wait a minute, he’s—”

“No time.” A door in the hall sliding open and closed. “I think I may be a suspect, they looked at me so oddly and they wouldn’t so much as—”

“But he’s—”

“—let me talk to the—”

A low, amused chuckle. A cough, muffled.

A falling bag. Silence.

Silence.

“What are you doing here?”

“Sherlock, you wicked man! Didn’t you tell him?” Quick, light footsteps. “So sorry to have upset you, John, I never dreamt you weren’t in on the whole thing. It was very tense, there, but now it’s all wrapped up I feel all right saying that it was a bit of a lark all the same. Although he did go a bit far with it—no, Sherlock, you _know_ you did. Can you imagine, he actually inhaled chalk dust and didn’t touch food or drink for three whole days just to mimic the effects of ricin poisoning? I do hope they gave you fluids before you left…”

Silence.

A slamming door. Books, crashing to the floor. Shouting: “CHRIST. Christ Jesus, Sherlock, what the fuck is _wrong_ with you?!”

A pause.

Whispering: “Well, I’ll just leave you boys to work things out, then.”

Footsteps, tiptoeing down the stairs.

Calmly: “Well, John, go ahead.”

“I can’t _believe_ you. Do you know, I nearly got arrested at Bart’s today? They were going to take me into custody until I calmed down. I kept asking after you and all they would say was that they had no such patient even though you were reported to be there, and now here you just… you just…” More toppling books. “... saunter into the living room like nothing’s happened and expect me just to…” A deep, ragged breath. “What in God’s name is going on here, Sherlock? The paper said you’d been attacked by some sort of domestic _terrorist_ , of all things.”

“The paper was correct.”

“I’m sorry, what’s that?”

“I’ve been investigating the ricin letters. Oh come on, John, you must have realised Mycroft would have brought it to me. Threatened to have me audited if I didn’t volunteer my services, actually.”

“The… oh God, the ones with the tainted razorblades?”

“Frightfully unoriginal—a poorly-planned imitation of a similar attempt in the States fifteen years ago, and when even the _first_ attempt never succeeded, I don’t understand how he expected to. At any rate, I got one in the post myself last week.”

“Wait, it was here? Here in the flat?”

“You nearly picked it up and got yourself killed. The envelopes were quite harmless, but if you’d opened it you might have been cut and…”

“Stop. Stop there. Yes, okay, it’s a dangerous profession and I accept that, Sherlock, I do. But—oh God, I can’t believe I even have to say this—you have to _warn_ me if there are _chemical weapons_ in our goddamned flat!”

Silence.

“And my believing for a whole day that you were _dying_ —do you have any idea, Sherlock? Why didn’t you tell me that, at least? Let me know you were… what were you doing filling your lungs with chalk?”

“He came to the hospital, of course. To gloat. I had to look the part. I knew if he thought I was dying he’d want to needle me; I had Mrs Hudson check me in, set myself up with a wire, and he obligingly dictated his confession.”

“Why Mrs Hudson? Why didn’t you ask me?”

“You’re too good a doctor and too bad an actor. I knew he’d be watching, and you wouldn’t have been convincing enough. I couldn’t have fooled you with malingering, so I thought it best to let you know when it was over.”

“Not… too bad an _actor_ , Jesus, Sherlock, that’s not an excuse. I was _terrified_ for you, for fuck’s sake. You’re… we’re…”

A long silence.

“You _tell_ me these things, from now on. Got that?”

A quiet breath. “All right.”

“I mean it.”

“All right.”

“All right.”

 

_22 April 2011, 8:30 AM_

“You should know that I have no discernible response to erotic stimuli.”

“Jesus. Good morning to you too, slept great despite the stamping noises and occasional shouting, thanks for asking.”

“It is entirely likely that I am not capable of such response.”

“What were you even _doing_ —were there burglars being tossed out the window again, or have you taken up flamenco?”

“Are you even listening to me, John?”

“Yes, I’m listening to you, I have no idea what you’re on about but I’ve listened. Don’t suppose you’ll be explaining where that came from, then, will you?”

“Sexual preference. As far as I can tell, mine is, _No, thank you._ ”

“Right, then. And you’re telling me this because...”

“I thought that, due to the nature of our arrangement, it was relevant information.”

“What arrangement, roommates? Like I told you, it’s all fine.”

“Don’t be thick.”

Toast, going down. Rustling papers. Fingers drumming on a countertop. Toast, coming up. Silence. Silence.

“All right, then, what arrangement is that?”

“Involved. Together. Life partners, if that’s what they’re calling it now. Not boyfriends, we’re both grown men and it’s a ridiculous term.”

Crash of a falling teacup.

“ _Sherlock_. We’re not. What the hell are you...”

“Oh, John, _please_. Average comfort zone of personal distance ranges 46 to 122 centimetres. The longer you live here, the farther away you stand and the more rigidly you hold your shoulders. You make eye contact more frequently and hold it for a shorter span, but you watch my hands when you think I’m not looking even though you should know by now that I am never, _ever_ not looking. You sent me a text from Jeannette’s mobile five months ago, which means you haven’t just got my number programmed, you know it by heart. My ticket stub for the circus is still in your left jacket pocket, well worn, you hold it in your palm when your hand’s there.”

“You were rummaging through my pockets? What in God’s name...”

“And you drank the coffee I made you, even though you don’t take sugar. The second sip you took because you thought I was being contrite and it would have been sufficient, but no, you drained the cup and you didn’t put it down when it was empty.”

“The coffee _you had drugged_ , you mean. That coffee.”

A sigh. “The sugar tested clean. We’ve been through this. Irrelevant.”

“Irrele—” A beat. “Fine. So what, you look at... these are the smallest small things, I didn’t even know I was doing them, and you think that means that...”

“I don’t think, I know. I see. I _listen_.”

Voice raised. “Well, you didn’t listen to me telling you and everyone else on the bloody planet that I’m _not gay_ , did you, so your chain of deductive reasoning is a bit bloody incomplete, isn’t it?”

Shouted: “No, but I did listen to you _talking in your sleep_ , stupid. Our rooms share a vent, you know.”

Silence.

A shaky, wavering breath. Uneven footsteps. “I’m going out.”

A chair dragging across linoleum. “John...”

_“DON’T.”_

Footsteps, quicker, almost running down the stairs. A slamming door.

A long pause. A shuddering sigh. Silence.

_10:58 AM_

Silence.

_1:13 PM_

Footsteps, pacing.

_4:30 PM_

Footsteps, pacing. A pause. Gunshots, bullets hitting plaster. Silence. Footsteps.

_8:28 PM_

“Sherlock?”

Silence.

“I’m, er. I’m back.”

A pause. “Obviously.”

A deep breath. “Well, look. You can’t... I mean, when you... You don’t just...” A pause. “I know you’ve said this isn’t... your area, but... well, Christ, Sherlock, generally when two people are in a relationship it’s customary for both of them to know about it, first off, and generally you’re meant to _ask_ the other one, not just _tell_ them like you’re making a royal decree of it.”

“I’ll make a note of it.”

A pause. “Or, you could. You know. Ask me now.”

“If you insist. Although you’ve already made rather evident that you...”

“ _Sherlock_.”

A pause.

“Ah. Right. John, are you—”

“Yes.”

“—I mean, will you—”

“Yes.”

“—I suppose that I ought to say, actually, have—”

“Yes, _yes_ , dammit, I’m right here and I’ve answered already so just... just shut up and...”

Silence. A footstep. Two. An ottoman being knocked over, a heavy fall. Two hearts, beating loudly next to each other.

_9:37 PM_

“So. When you said, before, no discernible response. How did you, er.”

“Empirically.”

“Ah. Right. You, erm, went out and found, ah, test subjects, then?”

“God, no. Hadn’t the patience to pretend to stand other people for that long. I conducted an extensive review of literature.”

“What, you mean you...”

“Really, John, this isn’t the dark ages. I used Google. And did some independent research.”

“I see. No, ah, research assistants?”

“No. Didn’t see how they’d be relevant.”

Laughter, first soft, then hearty. “You odd, odd man. Rather an uncharacteristic lack of rigour, equating the visual and the tactile like that.”

“I...”

A kiss. A pause. Another.

“Wasn’t in your research, was that?”

“Um. Not exactly. No.”

“Bit different, wasn’t it?”

An intake of breath. “Yes.”

A chuckle. Rustle of fabric against carpet. “I. Er. If you’ll permit. In the name of due diligence.” Moist tongue passing across the inside of a dry lip. “And of course, if you’d rather not, or you don’t like to...”

“Quiet.”

A kiss. Another.

_9:48 PM_

Brush of skin on skin, cotton on cotton. A sharp rip.

“Damn button is too...”

“Sorry, I’ll...”

“No, don’t.” A zipper. A grunt. “I think they’re tangled on—”

“Here, let me—” A soft thump, fabric landing on a chair. “There.”

A kiss. A pause.

“Oh. Oh, god.”

“Is that...”

“Yes, yes, fine, good. Oh. Oh.”

“Because if you’re not comfortable at any point, just say so and—”

“John.” A gasp. “Shut.” A pause. A low vocalisation. “ _Up_.”


End file.
